


The Pine Needles that Taunt Me

by oolongteawithpudding



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Homesickness, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rambling, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27150391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oolongteawithpudding/pseuds/oolongteawithpudding
Relationships: BJ/Hawkeye (implied)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	The Pine Needles that Taunt Me

It was the trees, that was it. That was what was missing when Hawkeye looked out the Swamp's mosquito netting. Sure, he'd kill to see a paved road, a brick building, a modern automobile- but, my God, Autumn was hell to miss out on. To look out behind a solid glass window to see a rainbow of foliage, that was what dreams were made of. He'd always taken it for granted in Maine. After all, he'd seen the same thing happen every year his whole life. He'd thought the tourists who came to gawk were out of their minds. But, one thing's for sure, Hawk understood it now that the mud-brown landscape of Uijeongbu was seared into his retinas.

It was baffling how Colonel Potter could muster up something new to paint every week, whether it be Klinger in a toga, Radar's hamsters, or a plate of liver, he always managed. Must've taken a lot of practice. He wondered what type of soldier Potter would've been in WWI, if he ever felt like he was in danger of being swallowed by the pallid earth. That's how Hawk felt sometimes, like his regulation wool blanket would curl up like a snake and smother him to death. They say that you can learn to sleep through anything in the Army, but there were some things his nightcaps just couldn't fix. He'd wake up after a shelling, all tangled up in his sheets, kicking and kicking until he was freed. Then, there would stand a half-delirious man in his underwear frantically looking around a pitch-black tent.

He'd asked BJ the other day if he was still sleepwalking, and he said no. Thank God for honest BJ, the man who only wakes up at the sound of choppers, or at the sound of a sleeping Hawkeye gunning to play air-basketball. He'd told him some of what Dr. Freedman had said, out of Frank's earshot, of course. BJ had just sighed in knowing pain, taking Hawkeye's hand for a brief moment. BJ was lucky. He had Peggy to write to- he could tell her anything. Hawkeye just had his parents, whom he couldn't worry too much, and Trapper, who'd never written back... Hell, he couldn't blame him. Hawkeye'd do anything to forget this war for good, and he was sure Trap wanted to do the same. Once Hawkeye gets to Maine he'll sign up his brain for a thorough dry-cleaning. But, he knew it wasn’t going to be that easy. It was part of him now, like a malignant growth that prodded at you and whispered in your ear all the names of the kids whose organs were blown up beyond repair.

He'd watched BJ from his start as a nothing but a displaced family medicine doctor, a guy who shed real tears just looking at bombed out children, to a guy who took all those tears and swallowed them in a martini glass. Hawk wasn't a religious man, but he thanked God every day BJ still had managed to preserve some heart. It's a very tricky balance, see. Too much booze and mischief and you can't do your job. Too little booze and you go crazy. Hell, Father Mulcahy even drinks Communion wine on especially bad days.

He’d personally counted the trees in the compound. Seventeen, mostly pines. One of the oaks had turned red, fallen leaves shriveled up in mud. They weren’t like the trees in Maine. This tree didn’t wanna be here any more than he did. All the trees in Maine had to worry about was kids carving their initials into them with their Boy Scout pocketknives. Jeez, maybe Freedman was right. Here he was, pondering the anxieties of trees, tuning out the distant explosions. Cracking up wouldn’t be the right way to describe it. It was more like swallowing a bit of dread every day, weighing your body down, filling your pores with acrid sweat, dead clusters of pine needles lodged in your face so you couldn’t scream or cry. That was all. He could deal with it, wrap himself up in pajamas and smell the letters from home as long as the night allowed.


End file.
